


I Threw Stones At The Stars

by JDylah_da_Kylah



Series: You Only Meant Well? [8]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: AFAB Frisk, Confessions, Family Issues, Feels, Friendship/Love, Gen, Heavy Angst, Identity Issues, Illustrated, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Insecurity, Non-Binary Frisk, Possession, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-Undertale Pacifist Route - "I want to stay with you."
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-06
Updated: 2017-02-06
Packaged: 2018-09-22 12:09:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9606980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JDylah_da_Kylah/pseuds/JDylah_da_Kylah
Summary: Confessions don't always go as planned.Or: ". . . but the whole sky fell."





	

**Author's Note:**

> Wow.
> 
> I think that’s about all I can say regarding this fic.
> 
> First, I wrote most of it in one sitting. _One sitting._ I sucked down so much decaf coffee. Gods.
> 
> Second, some of you may know how I’ve mentioned that I never really plan my stories, I kind of let characters speak for themselves. That happened here. That happened here to the _n_ th degree and things got a fudgealot darker than I’d ever intended.
> 
> Also, I wasn’t planning on . . . him . . . 
> 
> At all.
> 
> Seems rather fitting, no?
> 
> Obligatory lyrical inspiration is as follows:
> 
> “Remember when our songs were just like prayers?  
> Like gospel hymns that you called in the air.  
> Come down, come down, sweet reverence,  
> Unto my simple house and ring.  
> And ring.  
> . . .  
> Were we the belly of the beast or the sword that fell? We’ll never tell.  
> . . .  
> Now, I’ve been crazy; couldn’t you tell?  
> I threw stones at the stars but the whole sky fell.  
> . . .  
> Well I dragged you straight in the muddy ground,  
> And you sent me back to where I roam.  
> Well I cursed and I cried but now I know, oh now I know.
> 
> And I ran back to that hollow again,  
> And the moon was just a sliver back then,  
> And I ached for my heart like some tin man.  
> Oh it came and it beat and it boiled and it rang . . .  
> And it’s ringing.”  
> —Gregory Alan Isakov, “The Stable Song.”
> 
> Reviews/comments/critiques’n’thoughts are always, always appreciated. I do hope you enjoy. <3

****

  _Something's gone so very wrong._

* * *

 

"It's a nice day today!"

He stares at the ink as it bleeds into the paper, as it feathers, as it smears. He glances at a paw really too great to hold a pen, finds alabaster fur's been stained and streaked obsidian, doesn't find he cares. The words are now illegible.

Wearily he lumbers from the kitchen table that Alphys and Undyne are allowing him to use: an undersized makeshift writing desk, if one chose such gentle words. Strange it seems, how for centuries in the Underground there was always a weight against his SOUL, bowing down his shoulders, a burden he bore silently and masked with saccharine goodwill and the smiling flash of fangs from behind a flaxen, silken beard—how for centuries there was _that_ there, his secret sin, his guilt, and here—

Well, on the Surface, ah, it's a different kind of weight and guilt but nonetheless—somehow—it's worse, it's worse—and now even sometimes to stand is worth every ounce of effort he can muster.

His feet, without much thought, carry him outside. The fresh morning air, however slightly, lifts his spirits; the sun is a cool and calming golden flash against his eyes. And the earth—ah, the soil there—that's the smell he likes most of all, something that seems somehow an echo of his SOUL. He's been told by Frisk that it will be better in the springtime, but even now, such an unseasonable day, a foretaste amidst winter's snap, he can't help but cast a longing eye over the flowerbeds . . .

No, no, he must wait, wait until the snow's all gone and the soil is forever soft beneath his gently-raking claws; perhaps even until the first trees, real trees, bud bright green leaves and then—

Asgore settles himself on the front porch to wait—though hours it will be—blinking in the early sunlight, breathing deep the Surface-scents, looking here and there, up and down the road, time after time for the ones who are coming. Frisk, of course, and Sans forever with his brother, and . . . Tori . . .

. . . and . . .

Well. Nothing was said outright, but there's the faintest resonance within his SOUL and oh, and oh, he dares, somehow, someway, to hope.

* * *

They're up before the sun, before golden light can filter through the window, gleaming off the glass and hard-scrubbed floor. Asriel's face is the first thing they really see, and they can't help but smile sadly at the fact that even Monsters' eyes grow shadowed—perhaps in his case not so much with lack of sleep as . . . something else . . . a far deeper exhaustion . . . a different weight to dull his gaze.

"You're a quiet sleeper," are the first words by way of greeting slurred against his lips; Frisk frowns, rubbing grit from their eyes and wrapping him more securely in the blankets before hunkering back down themself.

"Good morning to you, too," they whisper, glancing over at Papyrus, hoping they don't wake him. "Are you okay?"

A shrug; leaves rustle softly. "I don't know. It's . . . different."

A nod from the tousle-haired child. "I know. C'mon. I'm"—Frisk struggles to stifle a yawn, knows they can't really go back to sleep—"I'm up. Let's go to the kitchen, so we don't wake up P'yrus . . ."

On shuffled feet they shamble down the hall; blearily they find the kitchen table, take a seat, fiddle with their hands for a moment while Asriel twists to look out the window at the growing, hazy light. Eventually Frisk clears their throat. "So. Chara wasn't a quiet sleeper, huh? Did they snore or something?"

Wide, wide vermillion eyes whip around to stare at them and Frisk quails back, suddenly _awake_ , suddenly afraid, suddenly sick inside because Chara's laughing that horrid, horrid laugh of theirs. They never were a thing to joke about—

"Asriel, I'm sorry."

"You're so different," he whispers softly, gaze dropped now to study the woodgrains in the table as so often Frisk has done. "Frisk, I k-know . . . what . . . what Chara thinks you are, what _I_ thought you were. A . . . reincarnation . . ." An adamant shake of his head, a petal sloughing loose; Frisk catches it, holds the silken softness in their hand. "M-maybe in some way that's true—only _you_ know, Frisk—but—"

"Stop. Please." Frisk twists their hands until their knuckles wax white and their palms hurt from biting nails. Anything but that. It's too early—it's too—too soon—all of it—the memory of all the RESETs, all the worlds, too fresh—maybe someday, someday they'll be able to look back on it, ten or twenty years from now when maybe they'll seem like no more than bad dreams—

**That won't ever happen.**

_Stop it . . . please._

A leering face flashes just behind their eyes, no more, no more: then silence and emptiness and . . .

"Asriel, do you want some breakfast?" Frisk tilts their head, glances at the cabinets, the fridge. "We have Human and Monster food. Uhm."

Unspoken is the question they don't dare to ask for fear of being rude.

A small, small smile then: tiny baby-fangs peeking out from underneath furred lips. Asriel's petals are decidedly less droopy; his leaves uncurl and one tendrilled vine reaches out to pat their hand. "I can eat Monster food. It turns to magic, anyway, so . . ."

Frisk nods, pushes back the chair, rummages in the cabinets and the fridge. One of the quickest trades for shopkeepers from the Underground once on the Surface was keeping Monsters supplied with the food that they were accustomed to—much of it called by just the same names as its Human counterparts. They pour a bowl of favorite cereal for themself and from the fridge pull out a dish of leftovers from something Undyne brought the other night.

"Cold's fine," Asriel pipes up when Frisk moves towards the microwave. "I—don't taste stuff as strongly as I used to . . . doesn't matter . . . this looks great, though."

"It'll be better tomorrow," Frisk manages around a bite of chocolate flakes. "Mom's going to bake a pie tonight, I think."

"Not snail . . ."

They grin. "No! I don't think so."

Silence for a moment; Frisk tries not to watch but can't help but be impressed by the dexterity of Asriel's vines, the strength in those fibrous cords: that he can wield a spoon astounds them.

Then:

"Frisk, can we see Dad today?"

Warily they tilt their head, considering, wondering how soon is too soon to start fishing through the past secrets he hasn't told: how soon's too soon to try and set everything aright? Too much could go wrong—too much could hurt too many people— Maybe they should wait, let things settle down, let him get his bearings first and then—

**Too bad we didn't kill him then, for good, when we had the chance.**

Frisk swallows, cereal suddenly stuck in their throat. It can't go on like this, they know: since rescuing Asriel, Chara's been . . . well, they're always _there_ , but oh, they're so much stronger when he's near. It's not his fault, never could be, but . . .

Maybe if they help him make his peace with everything _they_ did, maybe Chara will . . .

To expect them to give up is far too much to hope for.

 **But** _**I'm** _ **DETERMINED, too. Every route you ran where no one died? Every act of MERCY? . . . Hurry up and get this over with, since you think it'll help.** _**Then** _ **I'll show you . . .**

_No no no . . ._

"Frisk?"

A leaf against their cheek, real panic in the voice.

"Frisk!"

"Whuh—" They tremble, shake their head, realize the spoon's clattering against the table and the bowl's shattered on the floor. "Oh . . ."

"Are you okay?" Asriel's teeth are clenched, his eyes are wide. "You—just—"

"got a funny look about ya, kid."

The room seems to flicker for a moment as Sans steps from the darkness, lays a hand against their shoulder, doesn't seem to care about the ceramic shards crunching there beneath his slippered feet or the puddled milk.

"Frisk just—" Asriel glances up at Sans with a look of fear neither he nor Frisk can miss. "They just—"

The Human child grits their teeth. "I'm fine. Just. Fine. They—just—it's hard this morning, but I'm fine. Okay? Please. Just. Let it . . . be fine . . ."

Helplessly they stoop to pick up the broken pieces of the bowl but Sans beats them to it, carefully plucking at the shards with fingers which have no flesh to cut. If Chara's loud this morning—no—he knows what Frisk did before falling into the Underground—at their suggestion or—

The last thing he wants to give them is that ammunition, the inclination rekindled now by a slip of glass and slivered flesh and pain and blood—

"just relax, kiddo."

He finishes gathering the shards, tosses them in the garbage, throws a dishtowel down over the milk without a care. Only when a pot of coffee's burbling quietly to itself does he turn around, draw up a chair, smile slightly in that subtle way: he and Frisk, not so long ago, at midnight or thereabouts had sat in these very spots and—

Well.

He hated promises.

But.

"what tripped 'em, kid?"

Frisk shakes their head and Asriel steels himself against the skeleton's redirected gaze. Once—so, so long ago—no—more than once—he saw _something_ in those eyeless eyes that was enough to scare the hell out of him; it was Sans, all those years ago, all those RESETs, who had pushed him in time to stop, stop killing everyone because, in the end, after curiosity, it was just _spite_ —

But now?

Now there are soft lightpoints in the eyes and that calm, calm smile isn't so powerful, so threatening; the sharp shadows of his cheekbones don't speak of austerity, of the arbiter and executioner . . . just . . . the opposite of light . . .

(Except—last night—when Mom was crying—)

(He never left—and Frisk and Papyrus share a room—and—)

(When Mom was crying, he heard someone whispering soft-soothing-words—)

(And Dad's not here—)

One more glance at Frisk and Asriel realizes _that_ isn't the issue now, even though there's something in Sans' face which suggests he knows the Monster child's internal struggle, too.

"We were talking about Dad. About seeing him today. I haven't . . . really seen him . . . in so long."

The words slip out; the child hangs his head, twisting petals to form something of a curtain over his face—such embarrassment—why is it suddenly so _easy_ to tell Sans everything? He doesn't need to know—does he?

"yeah," the skeleton muses, "yeah, i'd guess that it's been a while, huh? kinda lost count of the years, all _your_ SAVES and RESETs . . . heh."

He stands, pours himself a cup of coffee, sits back down, looks from one child to the other. "don't get me wrong, asriel, i know what you really are. and i can't speak for alphys, but—well—back with gaster, when alph and i were his assistants . . ." Absently he rubs the back of his skull. "i had a hand in DT research, right? so i guess i feel responsible. a bit. and for that, asriel, i'm sorry. i am."

A bright eye peers out at him; Frisk sits in silence, startled at Sans' blunt admission. Well enough they knew he had his own issues with the royal son, but never had they thought he'd discuss it so openly . . .

"Did you . . . you worked for my dad . . . so you . . . I mean, you never met M-Mom until . . . but anyway . . ."

"i heard about chara, if that's what you're asking. heard that asgore got sick, heard that the kid got sick, heard that they died. and when you . . . well. your parents saw you when you came back from the surface, huh? SOULs still combined, i guess, still carrying their body."

A heavy sigh—not that he needs to breathe, but some gestures are universal.

"anyway. i think i saw you, once or twice, in snowdin, huh? you and the kid. i saw that look they had. didn't like it. didn't say anything, though, because they were the adopted child of the king and queen, so . . .

"how else could i see them, recognize them, after all these years? just by a look? heh. you think i'd tell _frisk_ to go to hell?"

Cold, hard silence, thick against the table, thick against Frisk's throat. They want out of this conversation. Now.

Sans must know it, too, turns to look at them with eyesockets not unkind. "i know this is hard to hear, kiddo, and i'm sorry. i just want to make it perfectly clear, to both of you, that anything i said . . . back then . . . it wasn't meant for _you._ and asriel—for everything that happened—when it was just _you . . ._ i guess, given everything, i don't blame you. i know what it is to be stuck, to wonder what's the point, to feel like there's absolutely nothing you can do to change what's been or will be . . . you turned that into rage. i turned it into nihilism, laziness, you name it . . ." A flicker of the eyes that sends a shiver up Frisk's spine. "apathy and worse. so much i _could_ have done . . . before . . ."

He squints down at his coffee cup, pushes it aside, fishes in the fridge and emerges with a ketchup bottle. "anyway.

"you want to see your dad today?"

A solemn nod.

"well."

Sans pulls his phone out from the pocket of his shorts. "he's staying with alphys and undyne . . . undyne's up early, anyway. let's give 'em a call."

* * *

"Hey . . ."

The kitchen is loud: Toriel's joking with Papyrus as he tries to help her cook some breakfast; Asriel seems to laugh at everything because, well, why shouldn't he? After so long, so long, here he is—his mother showers him with love—stops every other sentence, so it seems, to stoop over the kitchen table, nuzzle his cheek—

And yet—

Frisk pulls Sans aside, into the hallway, chewing at their lip.

"S-shouldn't we wait a bit? I mean . . ."

"i know it's kind of a rush, kid, but . . . look. before you came, a lot happened in the underground. there's centuries of hopelessness and fear and loss on top of . . . well. this world. your SAVES and RESETs. there are his, first off, and despite all that, between all that, there's still chronos, that wall-clock time.

"it's been a long time, kid, too long, even if it seems quick now."

Absently he reaches out, tousles their hair, looks down at them with an expression that they can't quite read—he sees a stocky, stubborn, (figuratively) golden-hearted kiddo and, well, sometimes . . .

"proud of you, frisk. i know all this seems like a lot, but . . . look, it _is_ a lot, but it's a helluva lot better than i'd have done, huh? if i knew what i know now . . . well. anyway."

Gently he steers them back towards the kitchen. "c'mon. we'd better hurry. second breakfast, huh? tori's cooking's better than that bowl of cereal you had . . ."

Frisk manages a smile, still isn't convinced, but realizes his warning: to stall the forward movement now would be to risk far worse than letting everything unfold. To keep Asgore from his son—or, more accurately, to force Asriel to still his tongue and keep his secrets yet again—

Wearily they shake their head, sit down at the table, staring at the breakfast Mom's arranged to look like a happy face on their plate. Asriel reaches out, a vine trailing there against their shoulder, smiling so gently at them, making no effort now to hide his lingering uncertainty and the hope that's far, far stronger. _It'll be okay._

* * *

The house is too quiet.

Alphys and Undyne have made themselves scarce, citing spending the day with that skeleton, Papyrus; Asgore doesn't blame them. Perhaps they sense what's coming. He isn't even really sure himself; he only hopes; he only knows that Sans called _early_ in the morning—that Undyne handed him the phone—that there was cryptic talk of them coming over because someone wanted to see him.

Who else? Everyone was free. Everyone was Surface-side.

Except—

Well—

Somewhere in the back of his mind there is a memory. He doesn't often take it out and think of it. Time has perhaps dulled it but can never fully wrest it from him: every golden flower brings it back.

Alphys' phone call all those years ago, the excitement in her voice, the . . . flower . . . from the garden where his son died—where his dust was spread—

And then, and then, not so long after . . . the flower . . . in the garden . . . weeping . . . calling out for help . . . the flower with a face so much like— his Asriel's—

Asgore's hands tremble as he sets out cups for tea. Of course, no matter what, likely with them will be Tori, and . . . well. He's no fool. Well enough he can hold on to his hopes but he's not impervious to reality—not in this case. She refused his friendship, even after all these years—he even saw the text she sent the child, once, caught as it was after a joke—"Do not call me Dreemurr." No. It's well and truly over, and perhaps—thinking back on it—perhaps it was never meant to be, really—

Not when now, however few the times, he's seen Toriel with . . . him.

The cheap antique-shop Human-crafted china (fragile!) rattles in his claws; he sets it down, the saucers, cups, the demitasse spoons which are so small as to seem completely useless . . .

From the kitchen the kettle whistles; Undyne's refused (and with good reason, so he's heard) to allow the use of fire magic in the home—and so the stove it is, the temperamental thing with gas pipes and sparks and smaller, subtle flames. (Magic would be safer, he's tried to reason more than once . . . but still, but still . . .) Gratefully he lays out the final cup, studies the sugar in the bowl, the arrangement of the cream and little cinnamon cakes. It reminds him, just a bit, of her, and for whatever reality might be, he can't let that go . . .

Asgore closes his eyes, lost in half a daydream, letting the kettle whine a moment longer yet.

* * *

"Are you sure you want me here?"

The front porch is small, it's a tight fit for the three of them, Asriel (as ever) cradled in Frisk's arms. Sans has approached the situation cautiously, doesn't want P'yrus caught up in the middle of this, and despite his protests has suggested that he spend the day with Undyne (yet again—ah, someday he'll have to explain all this . . . But Papyrus seems glad enough to have "his" flower back, so perhaps there's no harm . . .)

Toriel's still got one broad foot tensely splayed against the bottom step, as if there's some urge in her to run. "Child—Asriel—you . . . you understand, don't you? Your father and I—sometimes things—"

"I know, Mom." And suddenly that upturned face seems so, so much the wiser; small-fanged smile that he gives her isn't a smile, really . . . He says nothing, though, of what she hasn't said; it doesn't go unnoticed that she won't tell him about Sans. Well. Maybe when today is over he'll let her know that it's okay, okay . . . "But please, I want you here. All of you."

Asriel raises a leaf, Frisk their fist, against the door; it's the Human's knock he'll hear inside but that's not really the point.

* * *

Frisk sips their tea and looks around; by the smell they know it's chamomile and realize then why Asriel refused the proffered cup. Alphys and Undyne's house is something of a museum, filled with relics Undyne's found, or things she and Alphys made—which is to say nothing of Alphys' own equipment and, so Frisk assumes, experiments in progress. Though Toriel dismissed her as the royal scientist—and anyway, much like the Royal Guard, there isn't much need for such a position anymore—it makes the Human child happy to see that she's still a scientist at heart, that she still chases after the theoretical and impossible.

Perhaps, someday, Sans too might lay aside his past and—

Asgore clears his throat, pulling Frisk back from their thoughts. So far this has been an awkward meeting, little more than idle talk, empty phrases, all punctuated by the sporadic clinking of teacups, "Pass the sugar, please"—"Nice tea"—the like.

The venerable Boss Monster clears his throat again and Frisk makes a point to follow the roving of his gaze—and then they burst out laughing: from somewhere Sans has pulled out a ketchup bottle, squirting half the contents into his cup of tea; worse even than this is that, after throwing back that unholy concoction, chamomile and ketchup, he reaches for the kettle and the bottle for a second helping, as if this isn't the strangest thing at all.

"Well," Asgore manages finally, "Well. I."

He hangs his head a moment, then slowly brings himself to look fully at his son. It hasn't gone unnoticed that, for whatever reason, his reactions are far more guarded than Toriel's had been—why, Frisk isn't sure, unless he remembers more of what happened all those centuries ago—but still, but still, it worries them; how much it must hurt Asriel—

There's no emotion there across that innocent face, though: far more disconcerting in its own way is that fact than Asgore's wary consideration.

Frisk, anyway, had fully expected tears.

The Surface has a way of changing everyone . . .

Asgore's eyes are not vermilion, like his son's or Toriel's; but now their crimson depths gleam as he studies the potted flower on the table, the flower with his child's visage, indisputable. "You are my son," he whispers finally. "But I have seen you in the Underground as well, and there . . ."

"I was . . . lost." Asriel struggles for the words, wraps a vine around Frisk's hand because that's all he has to anchor him. Across the table Sans shifts, subtly, the lightpoints of his eyes strafing between the father and the son. Frisk wonders if he'll help Asriel to tell this sorry tale—to give it credence if Asgore could ever doubt—

The table is silent now. The tea will soon grow cold, will go to waste: no one seems to care.

And then Asriel, half-hidden by his petals, pulling himself unto himself from fear, embarrassment, for shame, for love, slowly begins.

* * *

"M-Mom. Dad. Do you remember Chara? Really remember them? Don't—don't just think of them because you're sad they died. Remember what really happened. How. How you caught them torturing the spiders. How they could be so angry, so impatient. How they'd sneak chocolate and sometimes steal your pies, Mom, and . . . that . . . that face they made . . ."

"The spiders frightened me," Toriel admits quietly, one paw pressed against her brow, "I did not understand why they . . . but their face? I thought they were just playing . . ."

Sans' hand is at her shoulder and she lapses into silence.

"Remember . . . when . . . Dad . . . we tried to make a pie for you? Except we used buttercups instead of butter? That—that wasn't an accident. Chara—Chara knew that the power of a Human and a Monster's SOULs combined could break the Barrier. Chara always—always—wanted to . . . The H-Human world had made them suffer, and no amount of love we showed could change that, change what they'd become. Y-you see? I . . . don't know. Maybe it wasn't even the Human world, even if they _hated_ Humanity. Maybe they just . . . maybe these things happen. Humans aren't like Monsters . . . not everyone is like our Frisk."

And well enough they've _all_ learned that, in one way or another, since the Barrier's been broken. No elaboration needed there.

"Dad. Chara knew you were the guardian of the Barrier, knew you . . . were . . . in some ways . . . their greatest threat."

"Threat?" Asgore spools the word slowly. "I never, never once, harmed them. I loved them. I . . . did not ever think I could love a Human, but . . . when you brought them home . . ."

"They were hurt," Asriel continues softly, "they were _hurt_ and . . . anyway . . . I think they had us tricked, all of us . . . I think they knew how to m-make you love them until you'd forgive almost anything they did . . ."

A glance between the two Boss Monsters, silent admission, silent guilt.

"Don't blame yourselves though. Please, please don't. They tricked me, too."

Asriel clenches his teeth for a moment.

"Dad, that pie, that . . . wasn't a mistake. I mean, s-sure, they _pretended_ that it was a mistake—and I didn't know—but . . . I think . . . they . . . _wanted_ to kill you, Dad."

"My son . . ." Asgore reaches out, hesitates, isn't sure quite what to do: his claws caress the pot at first but no, that isn't good enough; gently, gently, then he touches the stem, the leaves, the petals . . . the soft, soft pollen-fur of that tormented face. His son is crying now . . .

"I . . . couldn't . . . I was so weak."

Frisk feels their stomach clench; this, perhaps this part of Asriel's story is the worst to hear because they too know it, they too know just what Chara's like . . . how persuasive or hurtful or outright domineering they can be . . . how . . . vicious . . .

"They. You didn't know. I didn't say. They . . . said things to me . . . h-hurt me . . . if . . . they were angry or . . . afraid, I guess, or . . ."

"Why didn't you tell us?" Toriel this time, Toriel who always knew in some way but couldn't, oh, couldn't believe . . . She thinks of what Sans said to her last night, though, and refuses to damn herself for it. Sometimes things happen that are more than one can bear to understand until much, much later; if she knew, somehow, if she understands in retrospect, she also didn't know, and that—

Asriel just shakes his head.

"I thought they'd kill you. Or kill me. Or. Everyone. Somehow. H-Humans are so _powerful_ . . ."

"Well," Asgore murmurs finally, "well, son, I survived. It's okay. You—you have nothing to blame yourself for, do you understand?"

"It started as a joke," came the contention, "just a joke, and then you got so sick. So Chara thought . . . well . . . if we couldn't kill _you_ and . . . there was another way. I . . . could take their SOUL. When . . . they got sick? . . . they . . . did it to themself. They . . . asked me . . . to get enough buttercups to . . . and then . . . when they died . . . I . . ."

Another pause.

"They _told_ me that it was just to pass through the Barrier, to get six Human SOULs, to free everyone. I thought. I thought. If we didn't have to live in darkness anymore . . . but . . . I should have known . . ."

Instinctively Frisk reaches for him, gathering him into their arms, the pot a decidedly welcome weight; Asriel buries himself against their shoulder; they can feel him _shaking_ ; when he speaks again everyone else has to lean forward, catching the words as they're slurred hurriedly from harried lips, the testament of a tortured SOUL.

"I should have known they really meant to . . . kill.

"When we . . . combined our SOULs . . . _they_ took control. I c-couldn't fight, they just . . . _They_ carried their own body into the Human world. _They_ went into the village, let the Humans see Us, let them think that We'd . . . but . . . I realized what they wanted. War. They didn't care. They just w-wanted to _kill_. Humans. Monsters. Everyone. I c-couldn't let that happen. I'd never agreed to that, I'd never let them . . . I was so d-determined not to let that happen . . . that . . .

"I d-didn't let Us fight. I took back control, somehow. I . . . let Us absorb those blows, I let Us . . . I brought Us back down to the Underground but then . . . We died . . . in the garden . . . and my dust . . . the flowers . . . I . . . I was the cause of that. I just wanted to stop them but what they'd done was—it was too late—"

A wordless cry then from their son, the words run out, there's nothing more to give—and Tori's on her feet—Asgore sits there, horror-stricken—Sans doesn't even bother circumnavigating the table, is just _there_ in an instant—

Frisk, Frisk holding him, is terrified, is sick—isn't sure that they can handle this because—

Chara—

Chara—

**YOU IDIOT.**

**YOU KILLED ME.**

**KILL OR BE KILLED, ASRIEL.**

**I SWEAR THIS TIME I'LL—**

Frisk clings to Asriel as tightly as they've clung to anything before—their SOUL itself is twisting, writhing—Chara's tearing at it, seeking it, control again, always control—and there's no doubt in Frisk's mind what their intention is—

They don't realize, too, that they cry out—a wordless sound—an awful, awful keening that's like nothing Asgore and Toriel have heard before—a horrible cacophony of laughter and a desperate call for help—

Sans, still at Frisk's side, feels magic flare up through his bones, flashing from his hand, his eye; Tori's eyes hastily seek his, sharp-fear-struck-wide; he feels her SOUL resonate with his, pleading with him— _You made a promise to me_ — _please_ —

Protect them.

Do not kill.

But how the hell to protect them, _both_ of them, from . . . this?

He doesn't know.

Doesn't know, but no, they can't stay here . . .

A dark-eyed glance to both of them, his lover and once-and-many-times his king, before his phalanges clamp against Frisk's shoulder, pulling them to their feet, stepping so roughly into the darkness then that it's like the old days, with Gaster, when they were still perfecting it and damn, it _hurts_ , and he can feel in his cracking SOUL just what a risk he took.

* * *

"Where did he take my son!"

Asgore's on his feet; Toriel's seen him so angry only once; his paws are clenched; his body might have grown to softness over the many years but the strength of his SOUL and his rage are all he really needs—

"Tori, _you_  must know; he's your—" The great, flaxen-bearded jowls quiver for a moment; Asgore's crimson eyes shine suddenly with tears. "Where did he take my son!"

Toriel, trembling from fear—not of him, no, she's never been afraid of him—but for her children—for her love—stumbles to her feet, feels indigo fire licking at her claws, balls her paws into fists to quell it. "I do not know," she murmurs quietly, startled at the fact that she can keep a steady tone. "Asgore, I do not know. But Sans made a promise to me, long ago, that he would keep a Human child safe in the Underground for as long as he could. He kept Frisk safe, did he not? And that promise stands even now, when we're on the Surface. I have no doubt that he's taken them . . . away from here . . . somewhere safe . . . where they can . . ."

"Chara." A sharp growl now. "Chara has something to do with this, don't they?"

His fist slams down on the table, splintering the wood.

"Our son ended up a flower, thanks to Alphys, to . . . DETERMINATION. I _thought_ somehow that Chara's SOUL was . . . safe, was . . . Toriel, what _happened_ to them?"

"I buried them," she whispers roughly. "I took them from that damn coffin of yours and I _buried_ them. In the RUINS."

A dismissive wave of his hand. "But what about their SOUL?"

She doesn't speak, lets him work it out. Several minutes pass, during which Asgore paces, paces, from the kitchen and then back into the dining room, touching gently the wound he's left in the table, pulling at his beard. And then, slowly, as he pulls out that old, old forsaken memory, the truth—the Human child—

". . . Frisk?"

A nod.

". . . How? I do not understand . . ."

"The Humans call it reincarnation," Toriel offers finally, rubbing at her eyes. "It cannot happen to Monsters, since our SOULs do not persist after death. And . . . Asgore . . . please, do not be angry, do not be . . . jealous . . ."

"Tori . . ." Softness, softness to the rough-edged, panicked voice.

"Sans has told me things, things I do not know that I can say, things which . . . explain it . . . better than I can. Better than taking it on a leap of faith, on not understanding it. Please. Trust him."

"I trusted a scientist already! Look what happened, Tori!"

"Yes—I know. I don't expect you to." Toriel studies him, folds her shaking paws together, willing him to sit down, to see reason, to put his trust not in Alphys now—nor Gaster, as he did—but Sans. "But whether or not you believe it, Asgore, please, I feel that it is true."

* * *

Frisk has never felt the darkness in this way.

They feel Sans holding them, feel their arms wrapped tightly still, somehow, around Asriel.

But they also feel something else: the skeleton's bones grating, every joint it seems, one against the other, spitting cyan sparks like metal struck to metal—bright—magnesium flame-cast—

The darkness . . . has never flared so brightly . . .

The ground abruptly then appears beneath their feet; they trip, feel Sans fall to his knees, feel Asriel shaken loose, know that the pot's gone rolling. And all the while, all the while as the world rebuilds itself in a spray of nauseating— _something_ —(where the hell _are_ they?)—there's Chara, still, Chara who knows this moment of weakness is perhaps their best chance until who-knows-when—

 **There will** _**be** _ **more chances. Always, Frisk.**

**(But why bother, Frisk?)**

**. . . aha.** _**Frisk.** _

(Their own name, _their name_ , is like a nail driven there against their skull—)

**Stop FIGHTing, Frisk.**

**JUST LET ME WIN.**

* * *

They don't know what they know.

From tear-blurred, aching eyes they see Asriel—not so far away—but far enough—desperately, so desperately, he's calling out to them—but not for help—he's uncurled every vine and somehow, somehow is pulling himself towards them—fear for them is a jagged scrawl across his face—

They close their eyes.

It's _bright._

The taste of tea's suddenly sharp against their tongue and they double over, sick, violently sick, the pain of their cramping stomach and the bile in their throat and Chara all washing over them until they wonder, vaguely, if this . . . well, once they'd have so adroitly said "game over." Now—

"here . . . ngh . . . F r i s k . . ."

Sans beside them, then, still on his knees, one hand steady there against their back. They're so weak. They can't look up at him, can't bear to open their eyes, can't . . . think . . . can hardly move. Dimly, dimly, they register that his words are strained, that they've never, not even in the worst worlds, heard him make such sounds as this: whimpers there between clenched teeth: they know he's trying not to frighten them but if they weren't here—if they weren't here he'd be screaming—

Something's gone so very wrong.

He catches them as they pitch forward, holds them, somehow, hardly holding his own self together . . . Asriel by now has dragged himself to them; the pot is still intact but every petal, leaf is ragged; for a long, long time they huddle there, the three of them, knowing they're alive—barely—and knowing nothing more.

* * *

There is . . .

Frisk feebly glances up, can't help but do a double-take.

They've seen _him_ before.

Just once.

* * *

 

There is a man.

He smiles, a perpetually-cracked and toothless smile, eyes like an abyss because he _is_ that abyss.

He holds out a hand. A . . . hand . . . ?

Says something, something—they don't understand—Asriel's buried his head against them, he can't bear to look, but they're sure he can't shake that . . . voice . . . either from his mind.

It's enough even to silence Chara.

Sans, though—Sans must understand—

When he answers, ah, thankfully it isn't in this man's strange tongue. Maybe Sans remembers just enough to listen, not enough to speak . . . but either way, despite the pain, somehow there's something else to his voice which Frisk can't place—they've never heard him quite like this before—

Before . . .

"Hello, Dr. Gaster. It's been a long time."

A spray of notes, a melody—laughter?—and then, softly, a reply.

"Yeah, time's relative, I guess." Sans shrugs his shoulders, shifts so that Frisk's more comfortable there; their stomach's settled down but their mouth is bitter, still, which is to say nothing of the bitterness yet lodged in their SOUL. If they could just . . . sleep . . . maybe when they woke up . . .

**Or you might never wake up again.**

The man tilts his head, sharply, shambles towards them—once Frisk could see a man in a dark lab coat that swept the floor—now, now they see that it's not really so much as that as . . . well, he's almost like the Amalgamates . . . except . . .

A sharp, sharp string of words. Sans flinches, the lightpoints in his eyes grown dark.

". . . Yeah. There's a . . . fourth . . . with us."

The cracked-crackling smile falters, briefly. Another spray of words, perhaps not entirely unkind.

"Oh? You know already? Hm." Sans rubs at the back of his skull a moment, shrugs his shoulders; Frisk then remembers something someone said—about it being rude to speak of someone who's still listening—

Does he—does he know _everything_?

Tenderly they stroke a petal, willing Asriel to look up. "It's okay," they whisper. "Please, Asriel, don't be afraid. I think . . . he's a friend. See? Sans trusts him. It's okay."

The Monster child trembles, can't keep a thread of anger from his voice. " _He_ laid the ground work for . . . Alphys. A-and anyway . . . the weapons . . . that _you_ use . . ." A helpless petal jabbed at Sans. "If they were meant to be used against him, how—"

The man inches closer, closer; Frisk draws back, expects a wave of _cold_ , of . . . **darkness** . . . but nothing of that comes. There's . . . loneliness, if such a thing is tangible, if another being's loneliness can be a weight against their SOUL . . . but . . . warmth? . . . a gentle chiding, another spray of notes, laughter . . . but understanding . . . ah . . .

Sans doesn't wait for him to speak. "Nah, Dr. Gaster invented those, Asriel. In case we ever faced a war again. In case, let's say, the Humans found their way into the Underground en masse and decided to finish what their ancestors had started. _They're_ not the only one who had that thought, I'm sure."

The man nods—spreads wide his . . . hands . . .

Asriel quails against Frisk's chest but doesn't bury himself in their sweater again.

The man speaks up, a pointed question, gesturing to Frisk.

"The fourth . . . well, it's complicated. Frisk." Sans looks down at the Human child, suddenly realizing just how _old_ they are, how much they've had to grow up, far too quickly . . . "Frisk, can I tell Dr. Gaster about . . . ?"

The child shakes their head. They're exhausted, but Chara's silent now, and fearing them—fearing to speak their name—fearing to speak of them at all—won't do any good. Surely this man would appreciate that much . . .

"They were the first Human to fall into the Underground, a long, long time ago . . ." Frisk stumbles on the words, fights for a rhythm. "And . . ."

A gentle nod, a circuitous motion of the . . . hands. They don't need Sans to translate that. This much he already knows—all of it he already knows—except—

"I'm their . . . we're . . . we . . . share a body. Share a . . . SOUL." Frisk stares up at him, into that broken face . . . "But I am _not_ them, even if I've . . ." Helplessly they stop. That isn't worth getting into now. Besides . . . If _they_ don't stand up for who they are, then who else _could_? "My name is Frisk."

The smile softens and the man (kneels?) down, offers a . . . hand . . .

Frisk studies it, dubiously, decides that despite their natural inclinations—the natural spike of fear, disgust—those are merely Human traits, and this man (who's been so long forgotten) deserves much, much more . . .

His fingers feel much the same as Sans', except where the latter radiates a kind of body heat, the former is . . . not cold . . . but cool . . . An image comes to Frisk's mind, of the crisp, sharp sky in winter, and the scattering of stars so bright, so clear . . . that coldness and that clarity . . . ironically, perhaps, so he seems to them . . .

"The fourth," Sans continues finally, "was trying to, uh, take control."

The man shakes his head.

It goes without saying.

Take control . . . _again_.

"I . . . couldn't allow that, so . . ."

A narrowing of abysmal eyes. An admonition.

". . . yeah. I panicked."

Sans suddenly offers a decidedly wry smile, a shifting of that ever-present grin. "Remember when we were first experimenting? That was one of the first things you ever told me—don't ever, ever panic. Don't lose the coordinates. Don't lose the thread of your calculations. Well. Uh. I thought . . . this . . . thing . . . had a real shot at taking over, and . . . well. Here we are."

He's never stopped trembling, Frisk realizes, not this entire time; that pain as would have left him screaming had they not been there has never left his voice; the man must realize it as well because suddenly the hand he had held out to Frisk is steady on Sans' shoulder. Stable, there, against that shuddering . . .

"Yeah," Sans manages through gritted teeth, "yeah, I . . . it . . . did a number on me."

"You only have the one," Frisk can't help but whimper. "Sans . . . you're . . . you were . . ."

"heh. i'll be fine, kid."

And there, and there, the Sans they've always known: relief floods through them, fills their eyes with tears; even Asriel's small fangs gleam for gladness.

The skeletons eye each other for a moment, seem to converse without a word at all—Frisk doesn't understand, just senses it—maybe it's through their SOULs? Like Mom and Sans—well— _not_ like Mom and Sans—but—somehow—

"Yeah. I'm . . . tired, Dr. Gaster. So . . . so tired. Just. We need to get home. I . . . need to get _them_ home." A subtle nod to the charges in his arms, the children he's promised to protect—one by unspoken name, the other no less powerfully by-proxy.

The man shakes his head, hand working at Sans' shoulder for a moment. His free hand shifts from Frisk to Asriel, tapping at Frisk twice across the space between them.

"Damn." Sans heaves a sigh, wincing as he does. Frisk wishes he wouldn't waste the strength on such a worthless motion . . . "I thought . . . I guess . . . I hoped you could . . . take that thing . . ."

Laughter—not the spray of notes—but something . . . worse . . .

"Yeah, it's not possible, is it? And the damage they could do . . . from here . . . if they figured out . . . Ugh."

"No," Frisk interjects, "no, Sans, it's okay. Chara's . . . m-mine to . . . deal with now."

A pause.

They drop their head.

"I'm so sorry I scared you. I'm so sorry that . . . this . . . happened . . ."

"don't even worry about it, kid. really. it's . . . i . . . that was my fault, what happened now, you understand? it's just like dr. gaster said, i . . . panicked . . . and that's never good, not the way this works. that's not on you at all, frisk-o."

Despite themself and everything that's happened, the Human child giggles; he's never called them that before.

"How . . ." Asriel's voice is little more than a sliver, than a reed. "Please, sir . . . I . . . I'm not afraid of you a-anymore; see I remember . . . My dad always . . . spoke so highly of you . . . he was . . . when you . . . he cried when he heard . . ."

The man reaches out, gently, gently, offering to Asriel the same hand as he'd given Frisk and Sans. Tentatively a vine curls forth, wraps itself around a slender finger. The words are almost a whisper now; Asriel's eyes grow wide.

To their surprise, Sans has to wait a moment before he can translate; they realize then that the doctor's words are very much the same as his own. And if this man was once his mentor . . .

"Dr. Gaster . . . says . . . it's an honor to finally meet the royal son. And he deeply regrets that any work of his he left unfinished . . . was . . . misinterpreted . . . was . . . what led to this."

"Oh!" Asriel doesn't seem to know just what to say to that. "Oh, no, it's . . . you built the CORE and . . . I'm . . . I'm so sorry I was angry with you earlier. I was . . . afraid . . ."

"If I'd never met him," Sans casts a jaunty eye over the man, "if I didn't know him, Asriel, I'd be scared, myself."

"So." Again the reed, the hesitation. "Sir. Dr. Gaster. Can we . . . please . . . how do we go home?"

* * *

Frisk holds Asriel again, lays down on the ground—the ground?—something solid, yes, but gray, but free of texture—they aren't really sure just what any of this is, just where they are . . . They've seen a room like this, just once before, but . . . well. It doesn't matter. They're so tired . . .

The two doctors (ah, Sans will never admit as much, but surely, surely, he must be . . . and if once he was, well, always . . .) have been conversing for a long time now; occasionally they catch Sans' replies, or faintest traces of them, not enough to know what's being said. It doesn't matter. It's not really for their ears . . .

And anyway . . .

Well, it's been so long for them . . .

Frisk just wants to be _home_ but that's not fair to them, after all these years . . .

If they talk of more than coordinates and quantum fluctuations, they really shouldn't care.

Asriel strokes their face with the softest leaf he has, but between them, they don't speak.

* * *

"okay, kiddos, ready?"

Frisk glances up, shaken from something like a doze. Sans offers them his hand—he doesn't seem as shaken now—his voice is back to normal. Worriedly they study him, don't dare ask the question dancing on their tongue.

"nah, kid, i'll be fine. i know where we are and where we're going now. what happened last time was . . . i didn't know that. i just . . . i didn't think. well. now the doc has helped me out, so i know just where we are (sort of) and, uh, i've had the coordinates for home memorized for a while now."

A slight wink, a flashing-bright of lightpoints: Frisk can't help but grin, be ever-always grateful for Mom.

"speaking of." He glances once over his shoulder, rather longingly, at the spectral figure watching them. "we, uh, we should get going, huh?"

Frisk raises their hand, Asriel a leaf; Sans follows suit with the arm that isn't wrapped around their shoulder. "hope i never see you, doc. but." A pause, a working of his teeth; Frisk senses the sudden spike against his SOUL—the—misery and guilt and love—some kind of love— "God. I do hope someday . . . I'll see you soon."

The man smiles, smiles, ever seems to smile, flickering there at the edges, flashing in and out of Frisk's perception. He, too, raises a . . . hand . . . and waves at them until Sans steps this time into the same familiar darkness that Frisk thus far has always known.

* * *

Home.

Frisk knows it first by smell: the thick musk of boiling water—spaghetti then, tonight—and the sweet, soft fragrance of a pie. And then a room materializes about them, much more gently now, all soft-muted colors and stable planes: that it's the room he shares with Toriel—well—

Frisk blushes deeply, glances quickly at Asriel, hopes he doesn't understand.

"heh. well." Sans shrugs, seeming to sense their thoughts. "part of it . . . has to do with how well you know a place . . ." When Frisk glances at him, at once intrigued and scandalized, he acknowledges the time he brought them back to Frisk and P'yrus' room with a subtle nod. "sure, i know the coordinates for more than this, just . . . uh . . ."

They hear his bones begin to rattle, bite their lip at the cyan light gathered there, don't dare look into his face because—

"well, i'm . . . tired . . . kids. it's . . . this was . . . hard. so. this was . . . the place that i knew best. and—"

"Sans!"

The three of them glance up, joyous, startled, to see the familiar silhouette standing in the doorway. Toriel rushes forward, sleeves rolled up and flour-pawed, wrapping the three of them in broad, broad arms, holding them, just _holding_ them, nuzzling her son and Frisk and taking just a moment (of which they don't know) to let magic from her very SOUL flash out, wrap around Sans' own—

"Oh—what—"

Sans reflexively jerks back, curses himself for forgetting—

She'll have felt the cracks—

"Dear one—you're hurt—who has—"

"tori, it's fine, just—"

The great Boss Monster shakes her head, refuses him his pride. Tenderly she reaches out, healing magic pouring from the threaded indigo gathered at her claws—first, of course, first she realizes Frisk's pain—they are . . . physically . . . unhurt . . . but something has made them sick, and oh, they are so weary . . . and Asriel, her son . . . he leans into the light of her for comfort, mostly . . .

. . . Sans . . .

. . .  _What would he hide from me?_ Tori sets her teeth, SOUL-sick at the thought of some harm befalling him.  Instinctively she senses the hurts inflicted on him; these are not definite wounds but something else entirely, something that's nearly torn him apart . . . literally . . . But now, now he is here and there is healing magic in her hands and—

A small cry of disbelief escapes her when a certain truth, obvious to a healer's hands if not to a lover's, is impossible to miss.

When she looks down at him, his eyes are dark, are wide.

"yeah," he manages roughly, "thanks, tori, that feels much better."

"Sans . . ." she whispers, horror-struck, "Sans, dear one, you have only . . ."

A nonchalant shrug of shoulders that he should know better than to give. "1 hp? welp. i, uh, i was hoping you'd never . . . well, tibia-nest, i was thinking that you knew by now, 'cause, uh, you've—we . . . anyway."

Frisk tugs at Mom's sleeve, suddenly aware that after all this time their stomach's growling. That—and some water to wash out their mouth—and maybe later a hot bath to soak away this madness—and—pie—some pie—with Asriel—and—maybe tonight they'll both (somehow) crawl into bed with Mom and Sans—to keep away the nightmares—

And it seems that Sans needed rescuing . . .

"Oh!" Toriel reaches down to stroke their head; slowly they exhale. "Come now, my children, you must be so hungry . . . Papyrus has made dinner without burning anything, and yes, I've made pie, and . . ." She sighs, deeply, looking at them there—her children and her lover—fondness overflowing from her SOUL, tears brimming in her eyes. Today . . . was horrible . . . was . . . something she knows they'll always have to deal with, in one way or another . . . but . . .

"Come along." She takes Frisk's hand to one side, Sans' to the other, saves a special smile for her son, knowing on good faith that the skeleton will understand just what she means, and why, and think no more of it than an act of kindness—because sometimes just a place at a crowded table, even if one's slightly out-of-place, is still the best of MERCIES—

"Asriel, your father's waiting."

**Author's Note:**

> Final thoughts:
> 
> 1) Yep, Asriel's story is circuitous. I was rereading one final time, editing stuff, and decided to leave it; it feels more stream-of-consciousness that way, I guess. You know how if there's a story you really need to tell, sometimes you start with what's the most important first, and then work your way back up to that? I'd imagine telling his dad the truth, that Chara tried to poison him, even if they joked about it, laughed about it . . . I'd imagine that's the first thing he'd want to say. Everything follows from that fact.
> 
> 2) I refer to Gaster as "the man" mostly just 'cause the Riverperson does (or, at least, I presume he's who they mean: "Beware of the man who speaks in hands" and all that). ;)


End file.
